He went to the slabs, knowing it was a crazy risk to take. But the breakwater effectively stopped him from skiing farther anyway. He rapidly got out of the skis, holstered them on his back, and tackled the slabs.
Icy smooth, no footholds. He reached behind him for the coiled rope in the tunic belt. The plaited nylon was hooked to its little ice pick. He slung the pick, managed at the fourth try and hauled himself up the slab.
High; three metres. From the top he could see the outline of the eyrie. Still seven or eight metres above, and to his left. Hazy in the torch beam but with a long shadow inside.
He looked up at the ledge, and flung the pick — flung it repeatedly until it caught. He tugged hard on it with his full weight: a long, long drop this time. Then he twisted the gun on its strap round to his back, and started up.
The battered rock had footholds, slippery, unreliable, but giving purchase. He walked up the cliff face, hand over hand on the rope, and when his head came level with the ledge felt carefully with his feet for a hold and swung himself up.
He knelt there a moment, released the pick, gathered the rope in his hand and slowly raised himself.
The ledge was glassy with ice, very narrow; no room to turn. He faced into the cliff, and edged sideways along it, watching his feet.
He couldn’t see the eyrie until he was at it. The cliff bulged out slightly and suddenly there was no more ledge.
He stood quite still, his arms on the cliff, and looked sideways at the eyrie. An irregular hole, very jagged; a metre wide, about the same high. It had its own small ledge, slightly below, evidently the perch from which the birds had fallen, and above it another, like an overhanging brow.
He kept his arms on the cliff, extended a foot sideways and lowered it to the perch. The brow above was so slight there was almost nothing to hold on to. He got a gloved hand on the icy rim, steadied himself, got the other foot quickly on the perch and threw himself in. The skis snagged behind him in the opening and he was held for a moment before he wriggled them, and himself, inside and found he was on his knees on a floor.
He stayed there panting for a while. Then he took the gun and the skis off his back, helped himself to one of the Yakut’s cigarettes, and sat and smoked it with his eyes closed.
This was a few minutes after eight in the morning, and he had some thinking to do.
The Greater Diomede island, on its east-facing cliff, is dotted with bird eyries and Porter was in three of them while the fog lasted. The first, above the so-called Seal Causeway, he decided was too obvious a place to hide in, and he didn’t stay long. The second was where he hid what was in the body belt. (A half of it, for one disk was still on him when he was cornered.) The third was where he was brought down.
His account of what happened here is not totally coherent. But he knew that, although he couldn’t see it, a tape recorder was running at the time and that his words, necessarily distorted, would all the same be subjected to careful analysis.
He was in this last place some time after half past nine. (The gilt-wrapped disk, containing the data, he had just hidden. He had got away from it fast; but now he was wondering whether he should bury the silver one too.) The helicopters were then still grounded but he could hear their rotors slowly turning; also the sound of vehicles, less muffled by fog now and evidently patrolling to north and south of the opposite island. From this he knew that the strait was covered for miles and that he had no chance of skiing across.
He also knew that survival on the icy cliff was impossible; that he would be trapped on it when the fog lifted, and that his options were either to give himself up or to be caught.
A jeep had turned up below at this time and he heard the crew get out and search a cave. The man in charge had shouted:
‘Remember, lads, he’s to be taken alive. But put a few in his legs — he’s a wriggly bastard, can still make it, give him half a chance.’
This had given him pause. He was to be taken alive. And he was a wriggly bastard who could still make it.
He wondered.
He had his pick and line. He had his skis, his gun.
A few minutes later he also had a fantastic view.
The breeze, already snatching at the fog, turned suddenly into a blasting wind that blew it away entirely. In minutes the air was crystal clear, and the other island stood immediately before him. It looked no distance at all — a huge skyscraper of rock, laced with lights.
Helicopters were going up and down on it, taking a look at the disturbance before them.
Before them was the disturbance facing him.
He counted sixteen half-tracks; the flickering torches of some scores of men; many jeeps skimming on the ice; and helicopters fluttering, a long line of them, now too beginning to lift off.
He saw three long-bodied ones thundering away, evidently back to the mainland. The smaller ones went blinking up into the sky, to land somewhere above him. The half-tracks and the flickering torches remained.
The place he was in had a low roof and the floor was covered with debris. This slit in the rock — for this was all it was — was four or five metres deep, and wider inside than out, the walls at either side of the opening hollowed in.
From the opening he observed something new happening.
A helicopter had evidently lifted off above, and presently he saw it flittering like a daddy-longlegs along the coast, its searchlight examining the cliff face. As it drew closer he hid himself in the hollow by the opening and stayed there as the eyrie lit up. The searchlight looked in for half a minute, and moved on.
A little later, he saw that two vehicles were following the helicopter on the ice. Some banging had been going on, but it took him time to figure out what it was. One of the cars was a jeep. The other seemed to be a fire-fighting vehicle. It had an articulated ladder, and at each cave where the helicopter had lingered the ladder was raised.
Porter watched as, in the beam of a searchlight, a man went up the ladder, in a gas mask. At the top he flung in what seemed to be a stun-grenade, producing the bang, and shortly afterwards a canister of tear gas — smoke streamed out, anyway. Then the man paused, head well down, before suddenly rushing the place; with a sharp rat-tat, and another pause, before he reappeared and came down the ladder.
Porter positioned himself in his own eyrie to be nearer fresh air, prepared to take a deep breath and hold it. He knew he could hold it for two minutes. The man hadn’t taken as long as two minutes.
He was waiting there when it happened. He saw the walls turning milky white, heard the scrape of the ladder and the man coming up. He gave it ten seconds, filled his lungs, and actually saw the stun-grenade come arcing in. It struck the low roof, bounced sharply on to his chest and exploded in his face.
For some moments, the flash was the last thing he saw. It blinded, deafened, almost paralysed him.
He still hung on to his breath.
The second canister he didn’t see or hear. He knew it was there by the stinging of his lips and a prickling round the eyes. He was aware, through the smoke, of a bulky presence at the opening, a pig’s snout emerging there. He smashed the man’s head with his gun and yanked him swiftly in; remembering to rap off a quick burst at the roof. He had the gas mask off in seconds and put it on himself, exhaling and inhaling. He still could hear nothing at all. He waited some moments more, breathing quickly in the gas mask, and went out backwards.
It was the trousers (this he did not learn) that gave him away. He didn’t hear the order to face around, didn’t even hear the warning burst chattering round his head; was aware only of the solid jolt in his right leg, that he no longer had the use of the leg and was tumbling off the ladder.